


Miles High

by crewdlydrawn



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), The Dark Knight Rises
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Bathroom Sex, Blow Jobs, Drinking, Ficlet, First Meetings, Frottage, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mile High Club, One Shot, author has never been on a plane, license is taken with how flying in planes works
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 01:28:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9634676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crewdlydrawn/pseuds/crewdlydrawn
Summary: When John Blake got bumped to first class on a long plane ride, he never expected to meet one of Gotham's famous sons, let alone to have that person attempt to take his mind off of his fear of flying.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewaynecondition](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaynecondition/gifts).



"It's just turbulence," the smooth voice sounded from beside him, "it's normal, nothing to worry about."

Undoubtedly, the voice's owner had taken notice of John Blake’s white-pressured knuckles gripping the arms of his seat, the paleness that he could _feel_ in his skin, and the tense posture every muscle and joint in his body had readily assumed the moment the plane started taking bumps and stomach-churning drops.  That voice’s owner had, however, not spoken up for the entirety of the flight thus far, due to the sleeping position John had noted when he’d first buckled in, and so the words had the opposite effect of causing John to jump, startled, his widened eyes snapping over towards the window.

 _That_ didn’t help, either.  There was just so much _earth_ beneath them.  Yet that earth was so far away.  His random luck in being bumped from coach to first-class hadn’t changed the fact that he was still in an airplane, sitting in a chair in mid-air, with nothing but sky on three sides and plenty of it between him and the ground. 

The voice’s owner smiled, and John refocused his vision away from the window.  With his eye mask lifted to muss into his moussed hair, the man’s face was instantly recognizable.

Bruce fucking Wayne. 

Sure—John spends twenty-five years in Gotham City, and never sees Bruce Wayne in-person, up-close, but the day he boards a plane for the other side of the country, there he is, right next to him.  While he’s nearly sick with acrophobia.  Fitting.

“Right.”  He forced his mouth to push the word out, or at least he thought.  What actually came out was closer to a squeak.

Reaching to slide the elastic band of the eye mask off his head, Wayne chuckled, adjusting his body in the seat to angle against the window’s corner, facing off with John more.  He crossed one leg over the other, looking relaxed as could be.  “First flight?”

 _Isn’t it obvious?_   “Uh,” John cleared his throat, making a mental effort to control his muscles and release the edge of the seat, “yeah, first time.”

“Well, you’ve got a damn good seat for your first time up,” Wayne assessed, though John disagreed.  A seat where he couldn’t see the outside world—no, better, a seat where he was _on the fucking ground_ would have been a damn good seat.  A hand was in his personal space, then, hanging in the air between them, waiting.  “Bruce Wayne,” came the superfluous introduction.

“Yeah.”  John shook the hand after a moment, overly aware that his palm was probably a little sweaty and cold, and he likely hadn’t settled _all_ of his shaky nerves.  “I figured that one out, actually.  John, Blake,” he added quickly, afterward, realizing he hadn’t.

“Good to meet you, John.”  There was still a hint of amusement in Wayne’s voice, and it started to seep into John’s teeth.  “So,” settling his hands in his lap, Wayne continued, eyeing John up, “flying out of Gotham International… never been on a plane before… knows my face,” the last added with a small smile, “I’m going to go ahead and guess you’re a Gotham City native.  Am I right?”

If there were anything John hated even more than flying, it was small talk.

“…Yeah,” he acknowledged, ‘you got me’ implicit but unspoken in his tone, “born and raised.”  That was, at least, what people said when they’d lived someplace their whole lives.  John wouldn’t call himself ‘raised’ so much as ‘passed along,’ but that wasn’t part of polite conversation.

“What do you do back home?”

“I—you know, it’s a really long flight and all, but I kinda just want to get through it.”  John realized only _after_ the words flew out of his mouth that Wayne had probably continued talking to him to help take his mind off of their altitude and bumpy ride. 

Instead of flustering, or annoyance, or even mannered acceptance, however, John received a laugh and a wide, toothy grin. 

“You’re gonna tell me talking to you will help, aren’t you.”  It wasn’t a question, but an expectation.

It was Wayne’s turn to clear his throat.  “Actually,” reaching into a pouch-pocket lining the wall beside him, Wayne’s hand came back up with two mini bottles of vodka, giving them a little shake, “I was _going_ to tell you that _this_ will help.”

Now _that_ he could get behind.  With minimal hesitation, John reached out to take the offered bottle, taking a look around before moving to untwist the cap.

“It’s alright, it’s allowed,” Wayne assured.  “I just ask for extras, and they give them to me.”

John didn’t ask how many he actually _had_ in that little pouch.  At their size, it could easily have been over a dozen.  Instead, he opened the bottle, tipping it back and swallowing until it was gone, his eyes squeezing tightly shut against the burn.

An amused tick of a smile aimed John’s way, Wayne finished his in what appeared to be one gulp.  “Give it a moment or two,” he told John, holding a hand out for the empty, tucking it away with the fulls. 

The warmth was in his stomach in no time, sliding from his throat, and his hands tingled enough to force him to flex his fingers.  It was affecting him, but not enough.  Within moments, his eyes were drawn back to the window, peering out at passing clouds, clouds below those clouds, and more below that.  A few seconds later, the solid plastic cover was sliding down, and John looked to the side.

“Don’t do that to yourself.”

He tried, tried facing forward only, paying close attention to every detail of the wall in front of them, the ceiling of the cabin, the aisle, the empty seats directly across from them to the right, and then… the other side’s window.  Through it, he could see the same clouds, and was well aware all over again of the same height.

A pair of fingers tilted his chin upward, turning it back to the left, and John was startled enough to turn back on his own, as well. 

“Uh-uh,” was all Wayne said, his eyes meeting John’s, which widened slightly before settling on Wayne’s mouth.  John was dimly aware of his own lips parting as he exhaled, and his chin was released.  “So, what _do_ you do in Gotham?”

Clearing his throat, he figured this time he owed an answer.  “Detective.”

“Ahh.”  From most people, there might have been presumption in the tone, but for Wayne there was a weight of acknowledgement, a familiarity of sorts.  “What’s a GCPD detective doing on his way to Los Angeles, if you don’t mind me asking?  Business or personal?”

Warmth from his stomach started spreading further, into his limbs, up into his head.  “Uh, there’s an award-thing.”  Suddenly preoccupied with how his hands felt, he flexed his fingers more, smoothing at his pantlegs.

“Award?”  Dark eyebrows shot up into Wayne’s forehead, and he had clearly turned interested.  “What’s that for?  What’d you do?”

“I…”  More aware of himself after a moment to breathe, John wasn’t sure he should answer.  Another few bumps of the plane’s cabin jolting through his frame had his grip back on the seat, and Wayne’s hand covering his until it passed.

“It’s okay, see?  Not so bad.”

With a nod, John swallowed hard. 

“So what’s the award for?”

“Uhm,” John swallowed more thickly, “there was a fire.”

Those brows shot up further.  “Really…”  John nodded.  “You got an award for a fire?—Ah, save someone?”

“They needed my help, is all.”  Holding his arms over himself, John pushed his feet against the floor. 

Wayne’s tone was more curious.  “They?”

“It was a, uh… a boy’s home.”  He hadn’t _planned_ on saying any of it, but he felt the words slipping right out.

Instead of a playful smirk like before, Wayne looked more serious, leaning in, his legs uncrossed.  “Saint Swithin’s?  That was you?”  Quiet for a second, looking away, he turned back again.  “ ‘Officer Blake’, then.  I read about that.”

The discomfort in John’s body was much less about the alcohol, then, and he squirmed against the upholstered chair.  “Yeah… they pushed my exam to the top of the pile, after.”

“I’m sure they did.  John, you carried twelve of those boys out, yourself, before the trucks showed up.  It was in all the papers, _and_ on the news.”

John snorted, wringing his hands.  “Yeah, well, there were still a lot more of them, and they still got hurt.” 

“Sure,” Wayne nodded, “but they’re _alive_ , thanks to you, and I’m willing to bet you got hurt, too, in the process.”

“I’m fine.”  John found himself wishing he’d taken longer to drink the bottle so he’d have something to do at the moment.

“No,” Wayne drew out, “you did, didn’t you…”  His eyes looked nowhere for a moment, seemed to be thinking back through what he knew, and John wished he wouldn’t.  “Ribs?”

“Shoulder,” John admitted.  “It’s fine, now.”

Wayne tapped at his own knee.  “Well, fine or not, you’re a hero.”

The vodka seemed more and more like a mistake, as John felt hot under his shirt collar, and couldn’t make his body settle.  “I was just there, that’s all.  I used to go there,” flinching, he sighed.  “I mean, I lived there.  Before.  When I was a kid.”

For his part, Wayne didn’t ask for any more information about _that_ , leaving it alone.  John guessed that made sense, in its own way. 

Tugging at the collar of his shirt, a few minutes of relative silence later, John couldn’t help turning once more to look out the opposite aisle’s window, catching a glimpse of a break in the clouds, and gripping the seat’s arms all over again, his breathing unsettled.  This time, a full hand bracketed his jawline, and Wayne drew his head back to the left again. 

“Do I have to go close that one, too?” he asked, his hand unmoved, despite John facing him fully.

John’s eyes locked with the hazel ones staring at him in reprimand, then once again sank to stare at Wayne’s mouth, despite his mind yelling at him for even entertaining the thought that Bruce Wayne might want to kiss him.  He did grab John’s hand, however, with his free one, as another rattle shivered through the plane’s hull and John’s brow pinched, eyes unmoved, but losing focus.

As such, John was barely aware of Wayne’s brief look around before his head dipped forward, and those lips were suddenly on John’s.  It took a split second to even register what had happened, but John pressed forward in return, wetting his dry lips while they were against Wayne’s, somehow earning a soft hum because of it.

Wayne pulled back way too soon for John’s liking, but John also recognized after a moment that kissing someone in a plane’s cabin wasn’t really a great idea, and was very public, even if there were no other passengers directly across from them.

Shifting in his seat still, John was aware that though he had looked away, Wayne was still watching him.  John closed his eyes tightly as the plane dropped a few inches, sending his stomach hurtling towards the earth below, his mind reeling.

Both of Wayne’s hands enveloped his own, squeezing and holding until the motion stopped and all was still again.  The speaker pinged from above them, and the captain spoke, apologizing for the turbulence, reassuring that, despite some difficult weather, all was fine and they were still on-target so far, for arrival.  When the announcement was over, the room settled, John slowly opened his eyes, well aware of the erratic nature of his own breathing and heart rate.

“You okay?” came softly from beside him.

“Yeah,” he grunted, straightening his back, “yeah.”

A pair of fingers reached to touch the bottom of John’s chin.  “You sure?”

John turned, intending to reassure him, but he immediately found himself looking to Wayne’s mouth again, and there was no space of time before it was on his own once again.  This time, more fully, more open, and John had to draw back quickly to keep himself quiet enough.

“I…”

Wayne hadn’t moved away, his face still close to John’s.  “Do you want me to stop?”

“…No.”  His answer earned him a smile from Wayne, and John found himself clamming up again, pulling both hands away from Wayne and wringing them in his lap.  He was incredibly distracted, but he was still on a plane.  Tinkling of glass met his ears, soft, small, and another tiny bottle dropped into his hands.  One more might help, after all they were small.

A glance out of the corner of his eye showed Wayne drinking another, as well.  He had to wonder again how many the man _had_ stashed down that pocket.  It didn’t matter, ultimately, and John gratefully drank his down, feeling his body warm further, loosen, and was slightly horrified to realize where that warm blood flow was starting to head.  Trying not to make it obvious, he squirmed in his seat, needing to adjust.  Wayne was smirking.

“…What…” he dared ask.

“I have an idea.”  The smirk didn’t budge for the words.

“Uhm…”  Part of John really wanted to know, and another part thought it possible that he should probably change seats.

Wayne was still talking, though.  “You liked kissing me, right?”  John nodded, swallowing.  “Okay.  So,”  Wayne’s entire posture changed, leaning his body close to John’s, his voice low, conspiratorial, “I’m going to go into that bathroom stall up there,” he pointed forward, to the doors just before the attendants’ station.  “Second one on the left.”

“Okay…”  John wasn’t sure what was going on—announcing a bathroom trip seemed strange, even tipsy.

“And if you _want_ ,” the word was stressed, given a moment to breathe on its own, “you should give it a couple minutes and then follow me there.”

John’s eyes widened, and he found himself unable to form a verbal reply.

Wayne just kept on smirking, but shrugged, an easy roll of his shoulders.  “If you’re not there in five minutes, I come back, and it’s fine.  No harm, no foul.  Understand?”

It took him a moment, but John nodded, feeling his face heat up at the thought.

“Alright.”  Wayne stood then, stretching out his torso right in front of John’s face, and didn’t bother giving room not to graze John’s legs on his way past.  “Excuse me,” he made a quiet show of saying.

John nodded again, dumbly, readjusting in his seat, and tried not to panic once he was alone in the row.  The temptation to look out the opposite window was strong in the first minute, but he resisted.  The impulse to reach over Wayne’s seat to lift his window’s shade was stronger, in the second.  In the third minute, John reached over the seat, into the pouch, and took out a full mini bottle.  Operating under the seemingly safe assumption that Wayne wouldn’t mind, he twisted it open, downing its contents a little more slowly, placing the bottle back once finished. 

Three minutes, a check of his phone confirmed.  If he waited much longer, his chance would be gone.  If he _wanted_ the chance.

Four minutes.  John tucked his phone away, and tapped his foot for about five seconds before standing, slowing his movement more towards normal as an afterthought as he made his way towards the bathrooms.  He was relieved to note he still had a firm grasp on balance and motion, despite the vodka.  No one seemed to be paying any attention, and the second door on the left was unlocked, so he opened the door and stepped in.

Immediately, he was crammed close to Wayne’s frame, his stature similar enough to John’s to land them eye-to-eye as John tugged the door closed behind him, twisting the latch to indicate it was occupied.

“Uh…” John cleared his throat.  “Mr. Wayne,” he tried feigning a proper hello and nod, feeling even more awkward than the words had come out.

“Bruce, I’d think,” came along with a smile that turned quickly into a smirk.  “Barely made it, there, Mr. Blake.”

“John.”  He chose not to admit he’d been so indecisive, or that he’d taken another vodka. 

“John, then,” Bruce declared, leaning his back against one of the cramped walls.  With John’s nerves undoubtedly obvious, he reached first to tap lightly at John’s jawline again.  “I’d like to kiss you again, if that’s alright.”

Nodding, John barely had time to realize that it would go differently this time, in a semi-private space, than it had in their seats, before Bruce was tugging him closer, his mouth meeting John’s again.  This time, there was no rush to the contact, but no hesitance in keeping it, and less holding back from Bruce who grasped the side of John’s waist with his free hand, keeping the space between them nonexistent. 

Maybe he hadn’t started it, but, with a steadying breath through his nose, John was determined to follow through.  For his part, he slid his fingers to curl around the back of Bruce’s neck, purposefully avoiding messing up his hair too badly, not wanting to out him, after.  Kissing may have been the only item proposed out loud in the openness of the cabin, but John was no stranger to bathroom make-outs; they rarely ended as _only_ making out.  Logistics were already flying through his mind, though he doubted the pull-down baby-changing station could _hold_ a fully grown adult, even leaning, and didn’t relish the thought of sitting on it, either way.

Logistics didn’t circle his brain for long. 

Accompanied by a slight sideward dip in relative gravity, John was hoisted by the hips and set less-than-carefully onto the edge of the stall’s very small sink.

At his hiss, Bruce pulled back to apologize, though still smiling.  “Sorry…  You balanced okay there?”

“It’s fine.  Balanced okay for wha—”  He didn’t get a chance to finish, however, as Bruce was sinking to his knees, fancy slacks on the well-trafficked floor, his hands sliding up John’s thighs.  John felt his face flush further than the drinks had started.  “…Oh.”

Meeting his eyes, Bruce tilted his head, one hand just barely pressing against John’s fly.  “May I?” When John nodded, Bruce waited to hear a verbal ‘yes’ before swiftly and expertly unfastening his pants, stroking firmly over the front of his boxers. 

With strong fingers fishing his dick out of the material, John gripped his own hands against the edge of the sink’s small platform, realizing in a split second that he’d need more leverage than that.  With Bruce’s mouth centimeters from his skin, John tore his gaze away to gauge the distance and opt for propping his feet carefully against the opposite wall.  Bruce made an amused sound, most of which was lost to a muffle as he slipped the head of John’s cock into his mouth. 

John was instantly grateful for the leverage, even with his toes tensing inside his shoes.  Bruce wasted no time in sucking the full length of John’s shaft into his mouth, his lips in a firm-gripping ring as they slipped down, up, and back down again.  Brows knitting, John could barely concentrate enough on staying quiet, having no clue how thick or thin the plane’s bathroom doors and walls really were.  He _almost_ didn’t care as Bruce’s teeth grazed the base of his head, sending shockwaves radiating through his nerves. 

“Fuck,” breathed out regardless, and Bruce traded his mouth for his hand. 

“More turbulence could make that risky,” he chuckled quietly, opting instead to try finishing John off with just his hand. 

To be fair, John didn’t mind that at all, shifting against the sink’s edge just to reposition where the thin metal lip cut pressure into his ass.  Shudders rolled through his torso, down his legs, as he got closer and closer.  The pad of Bruce’s thumb was hitting his slit as his hand moved, and it was starting to short-circuit his control over how much noise he was making.  Biting his lip, he grunted quietly, barely able to hiss out a warning that he was close.

He was already shooting off as Bruce closed the distance again, John’s load flying straight into his mouth as his lips slipped over the head of John’s cock one last time.  Shuddering, John clamped his teeth down on the edges of his tongue to keep quiet, Bruce’s tongue flicking over his slit, clearing the last of his cum. 

If he had had the clarity of mind, in the moment, to turn the tables and offer to serve Bruce, he was never given the chance.  Still licking his own lips, Bruce rose from his tight position on his knees, hands firmly grasping John’s hips to keep him steady until their bodies were once again flush.  With the shift in grip barely registering as one of Bruce’s hands abandoned John’s side, John wasn’t fully aware of what Bruce was up to until he felt heated skin against his own sensitive nerves. 

No space was left between their faces, John’s nose bumping Bruce’s, their foreheads resting against one another as Bruce began to move, grinding his hips against John’s.  The small cubicle had already been filled with the steady whine of the plane, the staticky rush of forced air, but all of the small gaps left were now filled in with panted breath, with hitches in throats, and with low, bitten-back grunts that blew out with each exhale.  Firm standing returned to John’s shaft in no time at all, at the cost of over-loaded nerves sending tendrils of electricity and shockwaves into his body’s core, down into his legs, and all the way through his fingertips as they dug into Bruce’s shoulders up from beneath his arms. 

A faint copper taste tinged John’s mouth as he bit down on his cheek and tongue, shuddering against Bruce and willing himself to stay quiet as his core tightened and he felt himself release.  Bruce was not far behind, with a strong hand slipped around both of their lengths, holding them firmly as he rushed into its grasp.  John couldn’t be certain without looking closer than the space allowed, but it felt as if all of their mess ended up on _his_ stomach, alone.  Dimly, he was grateful his shirt had been pushed up in the frenzy.

Air still toying with his lungs, John’s mouth was covered by Bruce’s, a much closer kiss, and even more lingering. 

“How are your nerves, now?”  A knowing look lit Bruce’s eyes as he pulled away, and the corners of his mouth edged into his cheeks.

John, for his part, was flatly honest.  “Uh… on _fire_ , actually.”  The answer gave them each a chuckle. 

That chuckle died in John’s throat as the counter beneath him shuddered and shook, a low rumble accompanying the other mechanical sounds around them.  His grip on Bruce tightened as another hit came, a nearly nauseating drop.  John’s eyes widened before squeezing tightly shut, his finally relaxed muscles tense and taut once more.  A warm hand cupped his cheek, silently begging his eyes to open, and he managed to comply.

“It’s okay,” Bruce was already assuring him, his tone soft, quiet out of necessity, but close out of solidarity.  “I’ll be sitting next to you for the rest of the flight, remember?”

John nodded, only somewhat eased, and slowly released his grip on Bruce’s shirt. 

“We gotta get back out there.”

A groan rumbled through John’s throat.  “Right… god…”  They made quick work of cleaning up, John not wanting to be stuck in the bathroom for another set of shakes.

Washing his hands as John finally stood, Bruce began, “I’ll head back first.”

“Right,” John agreed, “because you started.”

“Right.  Then wait a few minutes.  Helps if you make some water and settling noises to really sell it, just in case someone passes by.”  The last made John chuckle slightly, and at least he was starting to feel all of his legs again by the time Bruce headed out, John plastered to the wall to avoid being seen right away when the door opened.

Before it latched completely, John could hear Bruce telling someone in the aisle that they _definitely_ didn’t want that stall for a few minutes.  He desperately tried not to laugh and give it away.  It worked well enough, and when he heard a different door latch, he locked his own to prevent anyone else from barging in.  After a few minutes, he finished cleaning himself up a little better, smoothing down his clothes and washing his hands, then headed back towards his seat.

Bruce was already settled into his, a magazine open, the window shade thankfully still closed.  Adjusting himself in the seat, John’s only acknowledgement from beside him for the moment was a pat to his knee.  Understanding, he fished his phone from his pocket and checked the time—halfway there.

The moment he felt _settled_ , not having been peering at the opposite window out of the corner of his eye, nor really paying full attention to the facts of their altitude and how little it seemed it would take to crash, a sign lit up on the wall several feet in front of them, high, positioned for maximum visibility. 

_[ Fasten Seat Belts ]_

A tone sounded from the speakers.

                                _“Passengers, this is your captain. Our bumpy ride is about to get even bumpier, and there is some more bad news, I’m afraid.  Due to a pop-up storm cell we had thought we’d beat to the northwest, we’re not making it to Los Angeles this evening, as planned.”_

John’s grip on his chair turned white-knuckle tight.

                                _“Don’t worry, we’ll be fine, but we will have to re-route for the moment.  A nearby airstrip is going to take us in until the storm passes.  Your attendants will update you further.  Buckle up.”_

“Fuck.  Shit…”

Bruce calmly bucked his own belt, reaching to hold the closer end of John’s up for him.  “Make it snug; it’ll help.”

John groaned, but took it and secured himself, despite still squirming in his seat.  Before leaving the bathroom stall, he hadn’t been sure his body could fully relax from being so excited—he was _quite_ sure, now, that though he was far from relaxed, the tension in his nerves had absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with sex, anymore.  Even the alcohol no longer seemed to register at all.

Not all of it was due to a rushed landing, either.  While he was set up for his stay in Los Angeles, carefully mapped out, his resources were limited.  He didn’t exactly have a lot of capital to work with, especially for any sort of deviations.  Legs shaking, he brought up the airport’s website as soon as their landing city was announced, and thumbed through the announcements. 

All flights cancelled.  Absolutely nothing until morning.

“ _Fuck._ ”

Magazine tucked away, Bruce leaned to look over John’s shoulder.  John exhaled sharply, about to tell him to shove it for the moment, but Bruce just spoke calmly.  “I’ll be getting a hotel room for the night…”  His tone was leading, and John froze.  “You’re welcome to share it.”

Shifting his eyes, first, John tilted his head to the side, watching Bruce’s face.

Hands rose in defense, their palms out and open.  “No obligations, I promise.”  The assurance was firm, final in its own way.  After, his voice sank lower, “But if you _want_ to fool around some more…”

The suggestion was accompanied by a million-watt smirk, and despite his lingering concerns about _landing_ still flitting around his mind, John thought to himself that it wouldn’t be _too_ bad of a way to spend a derailed night with that smirk around his dick.

 


End file.
